


The Spiderman

by blue_shine



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 01, The Stewmaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_shine/pseuds/blue_shine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected evening in Red's company takes an unexpected, deadly turn. Events follow those of The Stewmaker, towards the beginning of Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Closer

**Author's Note:**

> For inquiring minds, this does stray from the Red/Liz dynamic on TV: personally, I have viewed it in terms of father/daughter since the end of Season 1, so I have to assume I'm one of the few (only?) Blacklist fans who once enjoyed the thought of other possibilities but would rather not see those play out on the show. That said, the AU version of their relationship has been fun to explore!
> 
> Playlist: 8tracks.com/sea-sands/the-spiderman

It was all so fast—Liz had not heard a blessed thing, but her charge for the evening apparently did.

Flush against the wall, she stared in genuine surprise at the man whose hand was currently wrapped about her face. He drew even closer, his lips parting for what had to be the reason behind this madness. Despite the cigarette on the balcony, she could smell his sandalwood soap.

"Not one sound," he whispered. "Do you understand?"

He hadn't said 'please,' and he hadn't said 'Lizzy.' For the second time since Raymond Reddington had waltzed into her life, Liz's mind raced with the unpleasant notion that something very bad was about to happen to both of them. The dark blue eyes were searching her own, waiting.

From beneath Red's hand, she nodded.

 

* * *

 

On candy stripe legs the spiderman comes  
Softly through the shadow of the evening sun  
Stealing past the windows of the blissfully dead  
Looking for the victim shivering in bed  
Searching out fear in the gathering gloom and  
Suddenly!  
A movement in the corner of the room!  
And there is nothing I can do  
When I realize with fright  
That the spiderman is having me for dinner tonight!

. . .


	2. Pulling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam has not taken a turn for the worse at this point, just as a retroactive disclaimer on the brief smoking scene between Liz and Red. ;) Here is the floor plan of the Martha Jefferson Suite as well, if it helps to visualize (I totally want to go here someday, haha): www.jeffersondc.com/upload/pdf/Martha-Jefferson-Suite-Floorplan.pdf

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"Sir, I—"

"Agent Keen." An edge crept into Harold Cooper's voice. "I know babysitting duty probably wasn't part of your Saturday plans, but we need someone on that detail."

Elizabeth sighed. Agent Geary's sudden 'personal matter' had better be a damn good one. "No, I understand."

"It wouldn't hurt to build your rapport with Reddington anyway. A happy informant is a helpful informant, and you, of course, hold that rarefied honor of being the only one he wants to work with." The reminder was needless, but Liz still winced on the other end of the phone. "Not to mention it's just another opportunity to hone your skills as a profiler. Pick at that brain a bit?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's at The Jefferson. Martha Jefferson Suite, top floor."

"Of course he is."

"Tener is on the same floor, and Zaworski and Hastings are stationed downstairs."

"Got it." Liz finished scribbling out a note for Tom on the counter. "I'm on my way now."

»»««

As she turned from M Street onto 16th, Liz was still shaking her head. She knew Cooper was right, but it sure as hell didn't help right now. Her eyes traveled up the façade of The Jefferson, coming to rest on the top floor. She walked through the hotel's main entrance and into the lobby, steps echoing across the black-and-white tiled marble floor. A tall, black gate adorned with a decorative Greek key pattern rose up to her left, barricading the now closed lunch restaurant, and a grand skylight, backlit for the evening hours, arched magnificently above. She wondered why she had never been here with Tom for dinner or a drink before. Behind the two reception desks was a large, dual-paneled painting of some people and cattle who appeared to be on the precipice of a cliff. A woman at the desk on the right looked up and smiled at her.

"Good evening. Welcome to The Jefferson."

"Hi, I'm Special Agent Elizabeth Keen, FBI. I'm here to join a security detail in one of your suites?"

"Oh, yes, of course! You're headed to 812. The elevator is right over there. Would you like an escort?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"All right. Just let us know if you need anything, agent."

"Great. Thanks."

Liz blew out a long breath as she watched the dial slowly arc towards the '1' on the half-moon floor indicator above the elevator. When she arrived in front of Room 812, the tall freedom fighter who had made the final cut of Red's handpicked security team was there to greet her. She smiled tightly.

"Hi."

Dembe gestured for her to come in, closing the door behind her. Crossing the marble-tiled foyer, she saw a kitchenette on her left and proceeded on into the living room. It was sumptuously furnished, all creams and greys and muted blues, with a patterned rug covering polished parquet floors, a gas fireplace against one wall, and a Juliet balcony facing the street. From across the room, Agent Geary glanced up from his phone and promptly stored it, meeting her in a few quick strides. He looked harried, but suitably sheepish.

"Sorry about this," he told her.

"Don't even worry about it. Do what you have to do," Liz replied, moving to conduct her sweep of the suite's layout and exits.

"He is in the toilet," Dembe advised, pointing. She raised an eyebrow at him, and Dembe's own expression turned innocent. "Shaving," he clarified.

Deciding Red should at least be made aware of her presence, Liz went in the direction Dembe had indicated, first passing a powder room and then glimpsing the intimate dining area that occupied the southeast corner of the suite, nestled between two more Juliet balconies. An iron and crystal chandelier dangled over a round dining table encircled by four chairs. She continued on into the bedroom, which boasted an enormous, all-too inviting canopied bed. Finally, at the end of the rough 'U' she had made from the entryway, she found the master bath.

As elegant as the rest of the suite, the room was a cavern of marble and mosaic tiling. There was a small chandelier here, too, set in the recess of the ceiling. A deep soaking tub sat beneath a window to her left; the toilet and separate shower were beyond that, against the far wall, and to her right, two sinks. Red's shirtless form was in front of the nearest one, his chin high in the air as he went down the right side of his neck with a straight razor. At the base of the mirror before him, a hidden television was playing a nature program.

"Lizzy!" He stopped, catching her reflection. "This is a pleasant surprise indeed."

Still processing Red's state of undress, Liz jerked a thumb in the direction she'd come. "Um . . . I'll just—"

"Don't be silly; I'm almost done. How are things?" Rinsing the blade in the sink, Red moved on to his upper lip, flattening the skin there with his mouth and pulling down in short strokes.

"I can't complain," Liz lied. "Sorry for the last-minute substitution here."

"Are you kidding? Hand me your phone and I'll personally thank Agent Geary and whichever living or dead family member it was that pulled him away." Red rinsed again. "Sorry for cramping your style. I hope plans were not disrupted for the evening?"

"It's fine."

Red reached for his shaving brush and pot of shave soap. "God, I love the smell of sandalwood," he said, reapplying a fresh lather to the left side of his face. "You know, they say that smell is the sense most tied to memory."

"I would agree with that," said Liz. Red's eyes lit on her briefly in the mirror, but she did not elaborate, and he did not press. "So," she absorbed their surroundings in greater detail, her eyes settling on the bathtub quite longingly. "Just the _Martha_ Washington?"

"Oh, I am capable of some restraint." Red stretched his cheek from above as he took the razor over it with his opposite hand, working his way down. "And wrong wife, but yes, to answer your question: the Presidential Suite was already taken for the evening, so I went Bridal. Isn't that skylight downstairs exquisite? It's from the '20s, when the building was first erected. Apparently they had it covered over for years and just recently restored it. You can see it from this room, you know."

"Mmm. Well, the whole hotel is gorgeous. I'll have to come here again someday."

"Under less mandated conditions?"

"Those are the best kind."

Stealing another glance at her, Red could see Liz eyeing the straight razor. He ran it through the water; smiled. "In my line of work, I've never found disposable blades or batteries for the latest dodecahedral-bladed implement particularly convenient. Plus, they do come in handy in a pinch." He winked knowingly.

Liz pictured Red brandishing a straight razor in a desert tent somewhere and nearly smiled herself. It was then that the show's narration fell silent for some sequence involving a lion, and the rasping of the blade grated loudly as Red finished the areas that remained.

" _All_ pretty and clean," he murmured, dipping his hands into the water and briskly rubbing them over his face. In the light, Liz noticed a faint scar that curved diagonally across the right side of his abdomen. Too high for appendix, maybe gallbladder. When she glanced into the mirror, she found Red looking back at her.

Suddenly self-conscious, she raised her eyebrows in what she hoped resembled an interested expression. "Gallbladder surgery?" she asked casually.

He laughed. "Ho, if only! Though I suppose it is rather prosaic in its own way . . . a souvenir." Red shook his head at her reflection, frowning with his eyebrows and smiling with his mouth. "From _Gal_ way, of all places." After drying the razor's blade and scales with a hand towel, he moved his things aside on the sink and shut the TV off with the remote.

Liz was grateful for the chance to return to the living area, and she heard Red follow her as far as the bedroom. When he reappeared, he was buttoning the cuffs of a crisp, white pinstripe shirt beneath a vest that remained open. He caught Dembe's eye and jerked his chin up in acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Dembe."

Dembe nodded, making his way to the suite's door.

Liz looked from Dembe to Red. "Oh, you know, I'd rather—"

"He'll be back," Red assured her. "I think it's only fair to let them out every now and then, don't you? They have lives, too, you know."

Liz watched helplessly as Red's trusted friend bid farewell to his boss.

"So long," he called out, waving back. "Would you like to listen to some music?" Red walked over to the suite's sound system and gestured at the MP3 docking station. "This comes with the suite, but I had housekeeping set me up with some personal preferences for the night. Damned if I know much about anything past a cassette tape."

Her eyes widened. "Cassette tape?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I'm hopelessly low-tech. They're the precursor to the compact disc, you see."

"I know what they are. I used to—" Liz stopped.

Red's eyebrow lifted, a small and interested smile turning his lips. "Used to what?"

She shook her head. "Let's just say I had my own tunes I used to roller-skate with my Walkman to."

Something Liz could scarcely pinpoint crossed Red's still pleased, outwardly happy expression. "Well, we'll see if any of them show up on here." He made his selection, and the opening scale of "My Baby Just Cares for Me" sounded crisply throughout the suite's ample space.

"If you're hungry, we could order room service? The food here is excellent."

"I'm OK."

"You're OK." Red nodded, appraising her. "Well, then, from here I'd say you look like you could use a drink."

Liz shrugged ruefully. "I'm on the clock," she reminded him.

" _I'm_ not going to tell on you, Lizzy, unless you feel compelled to tell on yourself for some reason."

She stared at him, the memory of his low voice in the early hours of an awful morning all too fresh still.

_You gonna tell on me, Lizzy? Tell Harold how bad I've been?_

Seemingly oblivious to her current thoughts, Red shrugged back at her. "If they ask, just say you were indulging me to stay in my good graces."

Liz's mouth twisted to one side. Screw it. "Yeah. Sure."

Red headed over to the refreshment bar. "So, what'll it be. If it's not on hand I'll ring downstairs, but I always keep as many options available to me as possible. Chardonnay? Something more Saturday night, perhaps? Cosmopolitan? Martini?"

"Ah, martini."

"Vodka or gin."

"Vodka."

Red opened the mini fridge, inspecting its contents. "Do you like it dirty?"

Liz's chin lifted. She looked at Red over her nose, his own face impassive as he turned for the answer.

"I do."

He smiled pleasantly. "Very good."

She shook her head to herself and began to wander the suite, examining the art and veritable history that decorated every wall as the instrumental break of the song meandered jazzily. At the very least, Red's expensive tastes meant she would be spending her time surrounded by interesting things. She heard him shaking the drink and slowly started making her way back.

Red was holding the martini glass out as she arrived. Plucking a snifter from the barware, he reached for a bottle of cognac for himself. "When in France," he said breezily, lifting a hand to the suite and all its Parisian-inspired décor.

"Hey, maybe I'll get more than a drink out of this," Liz said, watching him. " _In vino veritas_ , and all that."

Red chuckled as he poured. "I appreciate your candor, Agent Keen. The only catch is I happen to be blessed, or cursed, depending on which camp you're in, with a naturally high tolerance. One I've had to cultivate even further, as you might imagine, based on the company I keep." He replaced the bottle and faced her. "The amount of _vino_ you'll need to get at my _veritas_ is quite substantial, I'm afraid."

Liz searched his face. Red just raised his glass.

"Cheers."

"Cheers." Liz tapped her own against his, and they both drank.

"That is a double-edged sword, anyway," Red said, licking his lips. "I can't _wait_ to find out what Elizabeth Keen has to say when she's three sheets in the wind."

_Is something he can't see / I wonder what's wrong with baby_

Nina Simone was singing the last few lines as Liz returned his gaze. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

Red's smile from behind his glass didn't quite reach his eyes, and when no denial came Liz regretted saying it at all.

"Old habits, I suppose," he offered smoothly, after another long swallow. "The _femme fatale_ may be an overused archetype, but I can assure you: she does exist, and you know what they say about the best defense being a good offense."

A soft and rather haunting piano piece started up in a minor key as Red moved past her into the living room. "Not to worry—I promise I'll be on my best behavior," he said over his shoulder. "The last thing I want is for Agent Ressler's number to be called the next time a changing of the guard is in order."

Liz cocked her head to the music as she followed him. "What is this?"

"Erik Satie, _Gnossienne No. 1_. Divine, isn't it?"

"It's lovely," Liz agreed. Red had taken a seat on the formal yet comfortable-looking couch, but she remained standing.

"You know it's compositions such as these, great works of art . . . they always makes me think this world we inhabit isn't all bad. That something so beautiful was created in it."

"Not exactly the _hap_ piest song."

"No. I find most beautiful things have some sort of melancholy about them, though."

Liz was struck by the singular reality of where she was in that moment: appreciating the finer things with someone who had eluded the FBI for the last twenty-three years. His comment on the world, however, reminded her once more of Stanley Kornish and the unsettling parable of destruction Red had launched into before killing him. Surely some event, some sequence of events, had turned Reddington into the man he was today. She was just going to have to get to the bottom of it.

"So." He regarded her from the couch. "How are things on the home front?"

Liz gave a small, unsurprised exhalation. "Jumping right in, are we?"

Red's face was nonplussed, looking about his immediate vicinity as if to suggest a lack of other available topics. "I mean, we have all night, but why not get the unpleasantries over with first?"

She met his eyes, holding them. "Tom wants to go to the Angel Station Hotel," she replied flatly. "The same place where the gun I found was apparently used to murder a Russian tourist. He's booked it for us and everything."

"And Tom's knowledge of this gun? And the box?"

"I haven't really confronted him about it yet."

"What does 'really' mean."

"I haven't confronted him about it yet."

"Well." Red sipped from his glass. "If you ever need assistance in this regard, I hope it goes without saying: you can rely on me fully."

Despite her best efforts, Liz could feel her anger mounting. "See, the funny thing about that is, when I'm alone with Tom? I'm not afraid something's going to happen to me."

"But you are when you're with me," Red finished her thought.

"You know this situation is beyond inappropriate. It doesn't matter that we have three other agents in the hotel."

"You're right," he chuckled; "it certainly doesn't." He could see she was unamused by the quip, and he bowed his head, a more sober expression in place when he lifted it again. "I don't want you to be afraid of me, Lizzy," he said, in a lowered voice. "I'm only trying to help you."

She considered him. "Are you?"

"Yes. And if you can walk away from your post tonight accepting that, I'll call this evening a win."

Liz drank at her martini, neither confirming nor denying anything.

"Now then. How about that skylight view?" Red rose from his seat. "We have to use the south-facing balcony off the dining room; you can't see it from this one."

She followed him through the hallway and into the dining room, admiring the chandelier that sparkled in the low, amber light as Red opened the curtains and desired window. It had been a warm fall day in the capital, but the gentle breeze that entered the suite promised the onset of something altogether colder. Police sirens wailed distantly as Liz joined him at the balustrade. He pointed the skylight out to her. Recently discovered, recently restored. Old and new, all at once.

"Despite what you may think," Red said, turning in her direction but not looking at her, "I do not exist solely to cause you agita."

Liz scoffed as she had in the living room, dipping into the martini she hated to admit was fantastic, and exactly what she needed at the moment. "How do you know what I think." Her mouth opened as they locked eyes. "Oh, that's right."

Red smirked. "You think I'm shadier than Muir Woods, no doubt, and you're right, of course." As though in illustration, his voice dropped to a rich, velvety tone. "All your training, your instincts as a profiler and as a self-reliant child are _scream_ ing at you to run away, and yet here you are," Red gestured between them.

"It's my job."

"You know what I mean, Lizzy. I know that trust is difficult for you, but I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me," Red amended. He sipped his drink. "Be right back."

Liz gazed down at the skylight and street below, weighing Red's words until he rejoined her momentarily.

"Can you hold this for a second?" He handed her his glass, and she saw the cigarette and lighter. Still full of surprises, this one. Red planted the cigarette between his lips and held the lighter up to her questioningly. "Do you mind?"

"Oh—no. No, it's fine."

He cupped his hands and lit the cigarette, pocketing the lighter and tilting his head skyward so as not to let any of the smoke drift in Liz's direction. "You know the thing I miss most in the city, besides the stars? You don't hear the crickets. I've always loved—" Red paused, the hesitation so brief that coming from anyone else it would have passed unnoticed, but it immediately struck Liz as some means of checking himself. "I've always loved the sound of crickets," he finished simply, reclaiming his drink from her.

Filled with an inexplicable sadness at his words, Liz chose to lighten the mood. "You say 'always' funny."

He gave her a sidelong look. "You say charitable things to me funny."

They both smiled, and Red took a deep drag, blowing another stream into the night air. He clamped his mouth shut again in the way he often did, the dimples hollowing at the corners of his lips and drawing Liz's attention for some reason. He glanced over at her. She met his eyes, hoping he didn't notice the direction her eyes had traveled.

"You look like you could use this, too." He proffered the cigarette.

While never a smoker, some juvenile part of Liz always liked the intimacy of sharing a cigarette with someone. It made her feel rebellious, and it was especially sexy with a man. Why she was thinking any of that now, though . . . She finally quit staring and accepted. Red watched the way she smoked it with interest before turning his attention back to his cognac, upending it in one fluid motion.

"Well. It appears I am need of a refill."

Liz peered into her own glass and finished what was left. "Me too," she said, handing it to him as she chewed on the olives that had waited for her at the bottom.

He looked down at her glass in his hand, while Liz just shrugged.

"Maybe I was blessed with a high tolerance as well."

"We'll see about that," said Red, amusedly. He retreated into the suite.

The soft breeze whipped at Liz's face. She had to admit it bothered her that, for every question she wished to ask Red, he literally had none for her. Except for when it came to Tom, of course. While her husband was a constant source of fascination, none of the details of Liz's own past seemed to interest Red, which could only mean he already knew everything there was to know.

_What if I were to tell you that all the things you've come to believe about yourself are a lie?_

Liz pulled on the cigarette. Tom had to be the explanation for Red's supposed fixation on her. It was the only thing that made sense.

"Here you are," Red said upon returning, handing Liz her second martini.

"Thank you." She drank measuredly. "You said if anyone could give you a second chance, it's me. What did you mean by that?"

Puffing on the cigarette she'd given back to him, Red let out an abrupt cough. "Hmm," he chortled. "You women. Always in the market for a compliment."

Liz viewed Red as a husband in that moment, as the father of a young girl. In spite of everything, she could see it, strangely enough. A naval officer outnumbered by women in his own house.

"I'm serious," she said.

"No, this is fun." Red downed some brandy. "Please—keep drinking."

She took a longer sip, narrowing her eyes slightly in response.

Red rested his glass on the balustrade in front of him. "I imagine you think that I don't recognize the extent to which I have disrupted your life, but I have to tell you, nothing could be further from the truth. I understand your internal conflict, Lizzy, I really do. You're supposed to love Tom; you're supposed to regard me as a monster. Now you have no earthly idea _what_ to think of Tom, and I'm starting to look like the one person you can trust to be honest with you."

Hearing Red repeat the term she'd called him in the aftermath of the day that just wouldn't seem to leave her thoughts, Liz glanced away, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Um . . . I'm sorry I never thanked you. You know? For saving me."

To say Red was surprised this was the main point Liz had taken from his comment was an understatement, but he tried not to let it show. Judging from the frown on her face, he could tell this was hard for her. He passed the cigarette, if only to get out of having to say something.

"That was the closest call I've had on the job yet." She looked at him. "But you already knew that, right? You know everything about me."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Liz nodded briskly to mask the emotion she could feel rising within her. "I just kept thinking about that tub, you know? When you said to check the drain in the motel . . . I just kept thinking the whole time I was trying to keep Kornish talking, that's all that's going to be left of me. Some chemical residue around a drain." She blew out a long exhalation. "Maybe a tooth, knowing what we know now."

A ghost of a twitch marred Red's face at the suggestion, but she was staring out over the city. He shifted, regarding her profile until she turned to face him again. At the threat of tears shimmering back at him, Red shook his head slowly.

"I wasn't going to let that happen, Lizzy."

The import behind the statement and mere sound of it on Red's voice—deep, soft—was somehow welcome and terrifying at the same time. She thought of the lingering way he'd placed his hand on her head, and how it had comforted her. How truly happy she had been to see him materialize behind Kornish when she did. She sniffed, hating whatever part of her she felt breaking inside.

"I was so scared."

Red's jaw clenched. "I know."

Liz brought the cigarette to her lips with a hand that slightly shook. She saw it, and gave a mirthless chuckle. "Some FBI agent, huh."

"Not at all. You did good, Lizzy."

She glanced at him. "Was that for me?"

"Was what for you, dear."

"Kornish. Killing him like that."

Red pulled at his cognac, his eyes crinkling slightly as he swallowed. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Yes."

Liz hesitated. "There was a picture missing out of that book you gave me."

"Oh, Lizzy," Red sighed.

"What?"

He shook his head. "You really are going to be the death of me one of these days. You know that, right?"

"Tell me this, then, at least. What you were saying, before you—killed him. Your family."

Red worked his jaw again. "Donald has my file. He should be able to fill you in on all there is to know."

"I'm asking you," she said, and Red met her gaze. "Are . . . do you miss them?"

A surreal rush overcame Liz as the instant, glinting loss flooded Red's eyes. It was like she desperately wanted to know the answer but could not bear to hear it.

His voice, while it had fallen to a near whisper, was steady. "I'd never have left them. Would you believe that? Not in a million years."

The sibilance of the last word hung on the air, and her own eyes sparked with fresh tears. "Yeah," she breathed.

Red nodded shortly and sipped his drink. Liz did the same as more sirens sounded in the city night.

"Ah," Red broke the silence between them. From his upturned face, he was looking down at the hotel's main entrance. "There's Dembe and your employer's apparent peace offering accompanying him now. You're relieved. In more ways than one, I'm sure."

Liz went to see for herself, but Red was already inside, so she stubbed out the cigarette and followed him. He set his glass down on the dining room table. The sound system was playing "Take Five" by The Dave Brubeck Quartet.

"I'm just going to run to the bathroom," she said, placing her glass next to his. She walked past him and headed for the powder room.

Out of nowhere, Red grabbed Liz from behind and whirled her into the bedroom, pressing her against the wall with his body and covering her mouth with his hand. He turned for a peripheral look, then redirected his attention forward. Liz's chin was moving up on him, and he mirrored the action with his own as he held her fast, peering down at her.

"Take Five" was thunderously loud now, all rattling drums and minatory, persistent piano. Liz strained to hear another noise behind it—something Red had heard, perhaps, but she did not hear anything. Stupefied, her thoughts ran from the unlikelihood that Dembe and her alleged replacement were steps away from entering this suite to the inescapable irony that the man who had just assured her of his good intentions was, once again, the FBI's #4 Most Wanted, and she at his complete mercy. She breathed anxiously against his palm.

Red drew closer still, the line of his teeth emerging. Even with the lingering scent of smoke from the balcony, Liz could smell his cherished shave soap on his skin. "Not one sound," he ordered, whispering. "Do you understand?"

She smelled the brandy, too. The starkness of Red's language seemed to confirm a legitimate threat was, in fact, upon them, and the thought brought her back to a bunker far beneath the earth, far removed from everyone, both their lives at sudden risk of being lost forever.

His face hovered inches from her own, blond eyelashes batting evenly. They had a way of making the eyes within them appear darker than they really were. Surely this was the scene Stanley Kornish had faced in those minutes before his death. Staring wide-eyed back, Liz nodded.

Red's hold eased against her then, but the hand did not lift away. Meanderingly, impossibly, he began dragging it down her face instead, his gaze dropping to follow. There was no trace of uncertainty in his expression or his touch, and Liz's mind reeled as she watched him—as she felt his thumb deliberately move to brush over and between her lips, pulling her lower lip with it before detaching completely. Frozen, she half expected Red's hand to continue its path down her entire front. It didn't. He lifted hooded eyes back to her.

Without a word and without a gesture, he left her there on the wall. The thought this might be some kind of sick test occurred to her briefly, but the urgency and literal force that had emanated from Red's bearing in a way Liz had never witnessed told her otherwise. The audacity, though, the _excuse_ of using sheer proximity to touch her in such an intimate manner . . . And then, of course, the imposed silence, in which she was not allowed to respond. Whether it was meant to distract her, or exert some power over her, all Liz knew was that it had left her virtually fastened to this spot: and if that had been his main objective, then Raymond Reddington was officially cleverer than she ever gave him credit for.

Red, meanwhile, had re-entered the dining room. He casually grabbed Liz's martini glass and brought it back into the kitchenette, where he poured himself another cognac. Taking it with him, he cut through the middle of the suite again and stopped. The gauzy curtains that concealed each of the dining area's balconies were now both fluttering in the breeze. Framed by the window that faced the street, the Spiderman stood in silhouette.

"Well," Red said. "What a displeasure it is to finally meet you."

He was small, a good five inches shorter than Red, but wiry and lithe, with smooth, dark brown skin and a quiet intensity all his own. His hands and all-black ensemble bore smatterings of chalk dust.

"You are familiar with my work." The voice was tinged with a French accent.

"Yes."

"So you know there is not much time."

"Associates have regaled me with stories of you. Or, shall I say, the evidence of you," Red wagged his finger at him, grinning in begrudging admiration, "but informed sources nonetheless. I know when the job calls for a quick in and out, nary a trace behind, you are the man to call. It is, after all, why they call you 'The Spiderman.'" His free hand waved idly through the air again. "That, of course, and your penchant for urban climbing."

From the other side of the wall, it all seemed strangely expository, until Liz considered that it was for her benefit. Was she supposed to run, or did Red not expect to walk away from this encounter? She was suddenly, oddly, afraid for him.

"I also know you're not a contract killer," continued Red, lowering his drink, "and that you're not here for me. Unfortunately, me is all you have. I am sorry you scaled eight stories for nothing, but that amounts to little more than your daily exercises anyway, I'm sure."

"Where is she."

"Gone."

"Of course she is not."

"What could you possibly want with her?" Red murmured, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"Not for me, friend. You know that."

"And your plan is what, exactly—you going to rappel back down with your quarry in tow?"

"As you say: I am no contract killer, but I am able to disarm someone very well."

Liz's heart pounded in her chest. Red was giving her the chance to escape. She had to take the unobstructed path to safety while she had it.

Now.

Red smiled musingly as he raised his snifter and drained its remnants. Then, like it was nothing, he brought the glass crashing into the top of the chair in front of him, a chunky third of it remaining in his hand while the rest scattered onto the floor and table.

"You can't have her."

Stoically, the Spiderman regarded the makeshift weapon the man before him clutched, the unmistakable brightness striping it from behind. He lifted his dark and intelligent eyes to the ones already settled on him. "Something happens to me here, you know what happens," he said. "Another person, another day. It buys you nothing."

"Maybe so. But for tonight, that's all I can live with. You want anything more than that, you're going to have to parkour right over me to get it."

The Spiderman's head tilted back on his neck then, a small smile quirking as he looked over Red's shoulder. "There is our girl."

Fooled, Red turned, and the Spiderman vaulted across the table, snatching up one of the glass's forgotten shards as he did.

Whether he had actually given him the idea or not, Red silently cursed his big mouth right as he felt the glass cut into him.

 

* * *

 

Quietly he laughs and shaking his head  
Creeps closer now  
Closer to the foot of the bed  
And softer than shadow and quicker than flies  
His arms are all around me and his tongue in my eyes  
"Be still be calm be quiet now my precious boy  
Don't struggle like that or I will only love you more  
For it's much too late to get away or turn on the light  
The spiderman is having you for dinner tonight"

~ the cure, "lullaby"


	3. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having ended every chapter thus far with someone nodding or tilting his/her head, I figured Red should get one of his own (hint: Liz will be bookending things in the last installment).
> 
> Reddington can be something of a challenge to write for . . . On the one hand, you know there's this vulnerable underbelly on him somewhere, but on the other you know he's had to survive the kind of crap I've thrown at him in this story a thousand times over. While Liz is an obvious weak spot for him, I also like to keep fanfics close to the source material—and that means no matter what, Red is still one BAMF. Hopefully, I've managed to retain some aspect of that here.

Weapon out, Liz began inching towards the foyer, away from the bedroom wall and away from the conversation beyond it in the dining room. At the sound of breaking glass, she stopped, but the voices resumed, and she continued on.

The Spiderman sized his opponent up, truly more curious than anything. He did not know him, but this man who stood before him—this man who claimed to know who _he_ was—evidently had some degree of resourcefulness when confronted. As such, he had to be neutralized. Time was running out. The distraction was simple enough, and the conveniently situated chair would more than make up for his size disadvantage.

Red heard the smooth, quick movement confirm his mistake the instant he made it. Knowing his only option was to minimize the damage he could, he turned into the descending attack. Naturally, his _petit ami_ had managed to grab the next best piece of his former glass, and it plunged into the left side of his chest, between ribs. He stifled the urge to cry out, gasping for the breath it stole from him.

Hoping the unexpected action would serve as a screen for her own, Liz made a break for the door. Her fingers were just wrapping around the handle when she heard what sounded like a deep sort of grunt from Red: the noise itself rather restrained, but, as with his nearly imperceptible hesitation outside, something she registered as out of the ordinary, and necessarily bad.

"Elizabeth?" The stranger's voice rose just enough to be heard above the music.

She froze.

"If you do not come out, I will kill him. And if you choose to escape, I will kill him anyway, as I can see quite clearly he will not permit me to leave otherwise."

How Red could be a cause for concern to this intruder and yet still be at his present mercy, Liz could not fathom, but the threat succeeded in convincing her. Gingerly, she opened the door to their floor and just as quietly closed it again behind her.

Both Red and the Spiderman looked in the direction of the small sound, its source invisible from their current vantage point. The Spiderman's eyes went back to the man he braced, sensing the shift in him.

"Relief?" he asked. "Or disappointment."

Red was pressing against his side as hard as he could bear. "Of course not," he rasped. "She did exactly what I wanted her to do."

The Spiderman pulled him deeper into the nook of the room. "We shall see in a moment. It could be a trick."

Liz was, indeed, debating the wisdom of her decision as she crept down the hallway from the opposite side, across from the living room. She would have little chance for surprise, so she had to make it count. Over the sound system that was still playing the music Red loved, Dinah Washington's voice was sweet, wistful.

_The leaves of brown came tumbling down, remember / In September / In the rain_

Her heart hammered incongruously to the lilting melody. She was regretting that martini and a half right now, but she had also learned long ago that wishing for things that were already decided was a pointless exercise at best.

_The sun went out, just like a dying ember / That September / In the rain_

Turning the corner, she leveled her weapon—and stopped at the scene that met her, her mind tripping over itself to try and make sense of anything her eyes were relaying.

Held by this man known as the Spiderman, a large piece of glass hovering at his throat, Red had both hands plastered to the side of his chest. He returned her gaze willingly, but his eyelashes lingered a bit too long when he blinked, and she could plainly see him drawing deliberate breaths to steady himself. Her eyes caught a drop of blood fall from the edge of his topmost hand, which was soon followed by another.

Shit, Liz thought, the only word she seemed to be processing at the moment.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

"Elizabeth," the man said.

She inhaled deeply. "Put down your weapon, and step away from him. Slowly."

"That I cannot do."

"You OK, Red?" Liz hoped her voice was not as tremulous as it sounded in her ears.

Red licked his lips. "Yeah," he answered, but it was quiet, strained.

"I want you to come with me, Elizabeth. It is important."

"Let him go, and we'll talk."

"No. You will come with me now."

Liz shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Not even for the life of your lover?"

She looked at Red. The Spiderman didn't know who he was. While she assumed this was more of an advantage than not, either way, it was of little importance at the moment: there was no shared look when she sought Red's eyes at the question, no sparkle of amusement dancing there, which there surely should have been.

"He's not what you're here for," she heard herself say. "Let him go."

"You are right; he is not." The Spiderman regarded the man in his clutches, and Liz did the same. Even through the unnervingly glazed expression she could see the different scenarios playing out in his head, the outcome of every move being weighed and assessed.

"That is why I am giving you the chance," continued the Spiderman, jerking his chin at her. "Put your gun down on the table."

"Elizabeth, I will kill you myself," Red rumbled, the uncommon use of her name apparently meant to keep up the ruse of their relationship.

The Spiderman chuckled softly. "He is funny, your lover." He indicated the table. "Do it now."

Liz stalled, needing to think. The man staring at her, calm as ever, did not. With brutal efficiency, he pushed Red's hands aside and rammed the snifter fragment into him once more, twisting it up and in. Red could not help but let out a strangled cry as he instinctively reached for the spot again, fingers brushing the now embedded glass.

"Hey, hey!" Liz's exclamation joined Red's, her gun wobbling to match her voice. "I will shoot you right here; I will shoot you where you stand!" She realized she was gulping for air as she spoke, the noise not unlike what was coming from Red's direction. "Red?" Liz decided to carry on the charade. "Look at me, baby. Look at me."

Red's head was downcast, his features crumpled in agony. From behind him, the Spiderman's obsidian eyes glittered, boring into her.

"He has little time."

Liz's own lungs heaved. "Step away from him now, or I swear to God."

"Your protector," he remarked, as though she had said nothing at all. Red lurched, facing forward again.

She swallowed, a sudden lump in her throat. "Yes."

"I wish you no harm. Either of you," the Spiderman added, absurdly. "You come with me now, I call the ambulance myself on our way."

"Lizzy, no." Red's tongue did a quick sweep of his mouth, and she glimpsed the blood he was concealing inside. Whether it happened internally or externally, he was going to bleed out if she did not get to him. She shook her head back at him, eyes brimming with desperation.

A cool breeze wafted through the open windows, and the Spiderman looked down at the glass that Red had dropped when stabbed—its hefty, jagged form available to him in one swift maneuver. Liz followed the direction of his gaze.

"OK," she relented, releasing the two-handed hold she had on her weapon. "OK. I'll go with you."

Red blinked, trying to focus on her as she walked past. She must have thought her fellow agents would be able to help her somehow. The contact her Glock made with the table reverberated in his ears, and he closed his eyes wearily. The Spiderman craned forward at seeing this reaction.

"Ah," he said, the gap between his two front teeth flashing, "so you were disappointed before."

Liz turned to face them again.

"Now your phone," the Spiderman said. "Go and drop it in the toilet."

"No," Red croaked. "No."

Liz frowned heavily, refusing to look at him as she pulled her phone from her jacket. The toilet, she repeated to herself, a new thought occurring to her. She started towards the bedroom and master bath.

"No, no—" the Spiderman said, gesturing to their right, "this one. We cannot follow you that far."

Liz stopped, deflated, and went back in the other direction. The Spiderman trailed the few steps to the powder room with Red. As instructed, she dropped her phone into the toilet below, feeling one of her last vestiges of hope fall with it. Red shifted in the Spiderman's arms, his fingers fanned on his chest.

"Radio?" the Spiderman asked.

Reluctantly, Liz produced that as well, and it joined the phone. "There," she said, looking up at them and catching, unwillingly, Red's fading stare. "It's done. Let him go." The Spiderman lifted his hand, gesturing for her to walk ahead of them towards the foyer.

It shouldn't have been surprising, what happened next—and yet somehow, it was.

Well familiar now with the placement of glass inside him, Red dug in without reservation, tore it out, and spun in his captor's arms. Liz was still processing this turn of events as the Spiderman reared back, the glass piercing the sleeve of his shielding arm.

In a moment's decision, the Spiderman shrugged free and broke for the farthest window in the living room. Although the time spent here was short, he had far surpassed his usual threshold, and risking another second was simply not worth it. It was as he said: another person, another day.

Red looked after him, clutching his chest as he let the glass fall from his fingers. His mouth was agape in that distinctive pull of the jaw Liz had seen a hundred times in mere weeks of knowing him, but the context was all wrong. All of this, it was all wrong. Just as a distant part of her told her to pursue the assailant, Red made for the nearest wall, opposite the dining room.

"Unnnh," he groaned, tilting his injured side towards the floor as he lowered himself.

Liz was right behind and dropped down next to him. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. Look at me. Look at me." Gently lifting his hands, she found the thoroughly blood-soaked vest and shirt beneath. "Oh, my God," she murmured involuntarily. "Oh, my God, oh, my God . . ." The pulse at his neck was rapid and feeble, and betrayed the reality he was slipping into shock. She leapt up, quickly stopping to reclaim her Glock from the table before running into the bedroom for the telephone there. Dialing 9-1-1, she took a long and shuddering breath.

"Yes, this is Special Agent Elizabeth Keen with the FBI requesting immediate EMS at the Jefferson hotel on 16th, Room 812. I have a man down with multiple stab wounds to the lateral chest. Yes. Yes. Not that I'm aware of, no. There's at least two, both in the same spot. No, unfortunately, and he's aspirating blood." Liz swiped at her brow, interrupting the operator's next question. "Hey, I'm gonna keep the line open, but this isn't a cordless phone, and I'm the only one here; I have to go back and check on him. OK. OK, yeah." She made a beeline for the master bath, grabbing several towels before returning to the hallway, and Red.

"Hey. Hey," Liz said, stroking his face as she knelt down again. "Look at me. It's OK. Paramedics are on the way. Just hang on with me here." Through steadily closing lids, the blue-grey eyes were staring dully. She undid the next button down from his collar and picked up one of the hand towels, willing herself to remain calm. Red saw her attention was diverted, and his lashes drifted shut.

"No, no, no—come on, look at me. I know the adrenaline's wearing off, but just stay with me a little longer, OK? They're gonna be here any minute." She pressed the towel against his side, which elicited a small breath out of Red. Too small, Liz thought, glancing at him before refocusing her efforts where they were needed. Blood was seeping over the towel onto her fingers, and both the sight and feel of it made her falter. She reached for another and laid it on top. Applied more pressure. Red wheezed.

Flashes assaulted her: of Tom, of Zamani looming over him, so much blood spreading under her hands . . . she had just been here. Tom was OK, though. He'd made it. Red was going to make it, too.

"You know you're supposed to leave these things in if you can help it, didn't anyone ever tell you that?" she asked, not entirely sure where the instinct for levity was coming from.

Red's mouth opened and closed, then opened again. "I know it," he said, his words gurgled.

Liz bit her lip. He'd done the exact opposite, of course—risking a much likelier, much more accelerated death—for her. It was all so ludicrous.

"Nice try," Red mumbled, "going for the straight razor."

"Shh, I don't want you to talk. I want you to breathe, and I want you to focus on me. OK?"

"Mmm . . . done." Vaguely unpleasant as all this was, Red indulged himself the chance to regard her so closely. There was an anxious but determined look in her eyes, her brow furrowed in fear and concentration. He felt badly she was scared, but that was about the extent of his regret. Above Liz's line of sight, a wan, secret smile flickered across his face. He nodded heavily.

Liz looked up at the movement and grabbed Red around the mouth with one hand. "Hey. Hey! Stay with me here, OK?"

Red tried to do just that as he breathed into the crook of her palm—the inverse of their positions not lost on him for a second, even if his turn against the wall was proving less enjoyable than he might have hoped.

The helpless, sucking sounds were as awful to listen to as anything she had been forced to witness thus far. "I'm getting Tener," Liz abruptly announced. She took his hands and brought them up, holding them against the compress. "Keep pressure on this. I'll be back in one second, OK? Just hang on. I'll be right back."

Red felt the instant cold as she swept past him, out of his field of view and out of the suite. He coughed faintly, blood dribbling from his lips. A new and deadly ringing had overtaken the heartbeat that thrummed in his ears, and he watched the way the crystals in the chandelier across from him winked in the light with detached fascination. No taskmaster barking orders at him, his hands eased and fell away.

Lizzy.

Lizzy was safe, much as he'd nearly botched that one, and she hadn't left when he gave her the chance, much as she absolutely should have.

All in all, Red concluded: a win.

His chin dipped into his chest, lashes shuttering.

 

* * *

 

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,  
"'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;  
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,  
And I have many curious things to show you when you are there."  
"Oh no, no," said the Fly, "to ask me is in vain;  
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

. . .


	4. Hovering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see four possible explanations when it comes to the end of this chapter—two of which, I suppose, are closely related. Can you tell which one it's going to be? ;)
> 
> Also, those of you with actual medical expertise: feel free to advise/correct me on anything I have described here!

Liz burst from the room. Nothing around her felt real, somehow—as if she were floating and grounded in some terrible realm at the same time.

He's going to die, she told herself, the thought mutinous and wholly inconceivable.

Tener was stationed past the elevators, and she could see the alarm come over his face as she approached. He reached for his weapon. "Keen—" he said, his eyes lighting on the blood on her fingers and what looked like more of it staining her clothes, "Jesus, what happened?"

"I don't have my phone or my radio," Liz panted; "call Zaworski or Hastings. We've got an assailant on the run. Black male, 5'5", black clothing. Last seen exiting Reddington's room, down the eastern exterior. Meantime, I need you _now_. Reddington's down."

As they both turned, a ding from the elevators signaled the arrival of someone on the floor, and a man disembarked. Seeing the two agents in his peripheral vision, he glanced over at them. Stopped.

"Dembe," whispered Liz.

His eyes also traveled the length of her in apparent disbelief, but there was something deeper there, something unsettling. He didn't think . . .

Whirling, Dembe ran for the suite.

"Dembe!" she called, rushing after him.

Dembe's heart sank at finding the door ajar. "Raymond?" he yelled. The living room was empty, its balcony also conspicuously open to the night. Turning, he spotted the lone figure in the corridor.

"Raymond." As Dembe knelt, he saw a freshly stained, curved shard of glass some feet away, but the amount of blood pooling next to his friend seemed disproportionate. "Raymond."

Tener was on Liz's heels making the call to downstairs as they both entered the suite. She turned right off the entryway and came upon Dembe hovering over Red. Red's head was down, his hands and the towels they were supposed to be holding beside him on the parquet floor.

"No," she breathed, joining Dembe's side as Tener surveyed the scene. "I had just gone for help when you got here, I swear. I was only gone for a minute."

"Raymond," Dembe repeated, taking Red's chin and lifting his face.

"Oh, my God—" Liz moaned weakly at seeing the blood around his mouth, "oh, my God, is he breathing?"

Dembe leant in close and put his hand on the center of Red's chest, titling his head to watch for its rise and fall while waiting for any discernible air movement from above. He felt the wisp of breath on his cheek and pulled back. "Yes."

Liz's gaze went expectantly from him to Red. Dembe was already hunching over him again, feeling for the supraorbital notch along the bone of the eyebrow. He pressed firmly upward with his thumb to stimulate the nerve there, and Red flinched and stiffened against the wall. Liz breathed out herself.

"Raymond. _Ray_ mond."

His face turned to the side. "Fuck off, Dembe," he slurred, eyes still shut.

"Don't be petulant, Raymond."

"Oh, my God," he sighed, "I never . . . should have taught you that word."

"It is a good word," his friend countered.

"Red."

Red's eyes slid over to hers as his head rolled back along the wall. He'd looked pale ever since she first turned the corner and found him slowly blinking at her from within the Spiderman's grasp, but now he seemed to be fading into his white pinstripe shirt, into the very suite around them. Liz saw a girl once, before, in New York, who had lost this much. She didn't make it.

Liz nodded dumbly. "Help is almost here, OK? Should be any minute now. You're gonna be fine."

He stared back at her, his features creasing for a moment in obvious pain before slackening again. "Lizzy."

"Hey. I'm not going anywhere, all right. I'm right here. Well—" she glanced across at Dembe, "I should probably get more towels? Then I'm not going anywhere." Dembe nodded, and she jumped up, running to the master bath.

Finding herself in familiar surroundings, Liz thought of the scar she had seen crossing Red's abdomen. He had survived this kind of thing before. That was lower, though, she reminded herself just as quickly. Not nearly as many vital things to run into down there.

_You really are going to be the death of me one of these days._

Standing in the room's low light, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

_You know that, right?_

She forced her mind back to the present and gathered up what she had come for. In the hallway, Dembe was carefully inspecting Red's injury for himself.

"Here, here." Liz dropped down to Red's left while Dembe switched over to his right to give her room. "How bad?" she asked quietly, readying a new compress.

"He did well to keep the trauma to the side, but it has bled a lot for that. There may be some vessel damaged. I don't know," Dembe said, and it occurred to Liz that she had never heard him speak for so long.

"He pulled it back out," she told him. "The glass."

Dembe looked at Red in silent dismay, shaking his head as he took his wrist in his hand.

"Oh, Dembe," Red answered aloud, "you know me. Always like doing things . . . the hard way."

Feeling for his pulse, Dembe noticed there was a deep gash across his right palm. He reached for one of the washcloths and wrapped it around Red's hand, closing his fingers over it. "You need to hold on to what you got, brother," he said.

The unexpected discovery had momentarily distracted Liz, and she found Dembe looking back at her.

"Keep pressure there in case of hemorrhage," he instructed.

"Yeah," she replied, just as Dembe picked up another washcloth and gently began to wipe Red's mouth and chin. She looked down, the word filling her with renewed dread. How much time had passed? It couldn't have been long at all, but even so . . . She pressed the fresh towel against his side. "You didn't do a very good job of this here," she admonished him.

"'Yeah, well . . . 'this' doesn't feel so great, for what it's worth," Red gasped.

"Shh, come on. It's OK." As she moved, her knee nudged over the small puddle that had formed between them on the floor. It was suddenly hard to breathe again. She had to get it together. Losing it now meant losing Red.

"Keen." Having come up behind her, Tener was looking down at their new prize informant with utmost curiosity. "I checked all three balconies. No sign of him." Dembe's eyes caught Liz's, and she realized he still had not heard the cause of all of this. "Zaworski and Hastings are taking care of things downstairs," he continued, "but Cooper's on his way."

Red shifted uncomfortably, trying to stretch his lungs, and felt the blood trickling down his side. Hmm. _That_ couldn't be good.

Liz swept an errant hair out of her face with the back of her hand. "OK. Thanks."

"What do you need? I'm going to keep a lookout here, but if you want me to take over—"

"No, I'm good. Maybe check in with the 9-1-1 operator real fast? The phone is in the bedroom."

Tener shot another glance at Reddington. Even now, he found the man's drowsy, heavy-lidded visage intimidating to look at. "Yeah," he responded. "I'll be right back. Just holler if you need anything, OK?"

Liz nodded. She returned her attention to Red, who was already looking back at her. The reality of their situation settled over her for about the tenth time in half as many minutes. "So. You've been through this drill before, right?" she attempted breezily, knowing it probably sounded anything but. "Plenty of times, I'm sure."

Red smiled, as near as he could. "Yeah," he admitted, before succumbing to another coughing fit. Liz's eyes sought Dembe's.

"Raymond," Dembe tried to get his attention.

He was visibly trembling—did this just start, or had it been happening to some degree all along? Regardless, it must have struck Dembe as well, because he was already shrugging out of his jacket, and he laid it over him.

"Mmm," Red grunted, squirming under it.

Dimly, Liz registered the fact that Billy Joel had since replaced the recent jazz selections. She liked Billy Joel. Mostly because Dad liked Billy Joel, although she had always found this song—"Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)"—to be particularly sad. Red seemed to be in the midst of some hazy recognition of the melody himself, and he sighed.

"'The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart,'" he murmured over the lyrics. "Hmm . . . that always reminded me of Frost: 'The woods are lovely, dark and deep.'"

"Yeah, well, you definitely have some miles to go before you sleep tonight, so that's a good reminder you unknowingly set for yourself there," said Liz.

"Funny—" Red mused, his eyes closing to the rise and fall of instrumentation in the bridge, "favorite songs that . . . hurt you . . . to listen to them."

Liz's gaze slowly lifted. There were tears standing in his eyes when he opened them again, and her hands eased against him.

"This came out not long after . . . not long after at all."

Dembe leaned forward to intervene on Liz's behalf, but Red had already moved on, blinking the moment away. "God, I'm so thirsty," he complained, well aware of the reason why but feeling the need to point it out anyway.

Liz swallowed against the new lump in her throat, quickly looking down again. "I know," she said. "I know. Look, you're gonna get all sorts of nice fluids in another few minutes, all right?"

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. In such a short time, the pattern was established: Red inserted himself between her and someone who was threatening her, and came away unscathed. Smirking, usually.

_I wasn't going to let that happen, Lizzy._

"You should have let me go with him," she said softly, bumping his hand with her knee as she adjusted the jacket's coverage on her side. Red crinkled his brow at her, but she just nodded in affirmation.

An unexpected guilt washed over Red. She had seen a lot of bloodshed lately, and here he was, adding to it. He continued to observe her face as it left him again, but everything was starting to fade from view. He groped for the offending knee, and Liz felt the tips of his fingers brush against her.

"It's all right," he whispered.

In a flash, her thoughts jumped ahead in time—straight to the bleak reality of his no longer being there and its accompanying, wildly selfish notion that she was never going to find out all these truths he supposedly knew about her. She gaped at him in horror, as though he had heard this clear as day.

"Listen to me: you're gonna be fine. OK? Just stay with me here. You're doing great, but I need you to keep looking at me."

Tener returned from the bedroom. "They should be pulling up now," he informed them.

Liz's eyes darted from him to Dembe, and back again to Red. If this last statement had reached him at all, there was no indication of it. They were losing him.

"Raymond," insisted Dembe, just as the sound of multiple approaching sirens carried down the street. Liz's heart swelled.

"You hear that?" she said. "They're coming now; you're gonna be fine."

She was nodding encouragingly at him, but Red could barely keep his eyes open, let alone convey any sort of reassurance to her. Whenever he was in a bad way in the past, he'd been able to— _had_ to—stave off unconsciousness for quite some time. The luxury of having someone right in front of him, though, taking on the burden of seeing to his survival . . . well, that was always too tempting an offer to pass up. His eyelids were just so damned heavy, and that darkness was so inviting.

"Red?" cried Liz, putting her hands on both shoulders now. She choked back a sob, utterly indifferent to what Dembe or Tener or anyone else stumbling upon this scene might think. She couldn't take any more death, or near death, occurring right in front of her. It was too much. "Come on. Come on, don't do this."

He appeared to be holding on to whatever he could see of her, even as blood slid from his mouth in blatant, cruel mockery of both their efforts. Dembe moved to check his airway while Liz rocked back on her heels. The next thing she knew, EMTs and responding officers were descending upon them.

"Is anyone else injured?" She felt the various bloodstains covering her being inspected once again as she stood now with Dembe.

"No," she replied, brushing away a tear using the top of her wrist. "No, it's all him."

"Is he conscious?"

"I think so. Barely. I don't know."

Liz saw that he was, however, when she gave them the alias everyone at the Post Office had been instructed to use, and a subtle look of distaste furrowed his brow. While she felt some measure of relief as the paramedics tended to him, fitting him with a non-rebreather mask for high-flow oxygen and administering a volume expander for intravenous fluid replenishment, their demeanor made it clear they did not want to stay.

"I'll call ahead to GW; let them know we're five minutes out," said one. She caught bits of what was relayed to the receiving hospital: Traumatic pneumothorax. Diminished breath sounds. Hypovolemic. Liz stared across at Dembe, who looked like he was preparing to leave with them. Assistant Director Cooper was suddenly coming in through the foyer, accompanied by Donald Ressler.

"Keen. Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir."

Liz glanced over as the medics began to move Red. He looked grey. She instinctively turned in their direction, but Cooper's voice brought her back.

"Keen. I think you should stay here so we can figure this out. We have people to go with them."

Dembe was following the gurney to the open door, and he stopped on the marble-tiled entryway, feeling her eyes and turning to meet them. He lifted his head at her. With the ghost of a smile, Liz acknowledged him back.

"So," Cooper was studying her closely, as was Ressler. "What happened here tonight? You say there was an intruder? Escaped down the side of the building?"

Liz caught the minute narrowing of his eyes. "You think I'm making it up? You think I did this?"

Cooper could see the near hysteria threatening his young agent, and he raised his hands in a nonthreatening gesture. "I just want to hear it from you, Keen," he said gently. "There will be a time to go on the record about what happened, but that time is not now."

She searched both of their faces, still wary but feeling her adrenaline begin to subside. "There was a man," she said; "Reddington called him 'The Spiderman.' He knew he was there before I did, and he went to go confront him while I stayed, while I stayed behind."

"Stayed behind where?"

Her mind's eye went back to the bedroom: Red, peering down his face at her, the weight of his body, the heat of his hand. If only Cooper knew he had gotten her in such a position . . .

"I was out in the hallway," she said, skipping ahead. "I could hear them talking, but I stayed out of sight."

"And then?"

"And then, I heard a struggle. I tried to intervene, but . . . it only escalated from there."

"Why didn't you go for backup?"

"I couldn't," Liz flustered; "I—"

"Not once Reddington was down, I mean as soon as he gave you the window? When you were out in the hallway?"

"I don't know," she said. "Something about this just felt—different, you know, I mean right from the start. Like he wouldn't hesitate. I don't know."

A trace of suspicion crossed Cooper's face all of a sudden. "And where was your weapon in all this?"

"I, um . . ." She stopped, knowing she couldn't lie. "I did surrender it at one point."

Ressler gave a slight shake of the head, while Cooper inhaled deeply. "Damn it, Keen, there are protocols. Do you realize how badly this could have ended?"

Liz gawked at the floor, the carpet, the suite full of emergency personnel and broken glass and bloody towels. "You don't call this ending badly?" she challenged, aghast.

"I won't have the safety of my agents compromised," he replied, "under any circumstances. You may be the only one Reddington wants to work with, but it looks like we're just going to have to come up with some other arrangements. Assuming he survives, that is."

She must have winced, because Cooper's tone was noticeably softer when he addressed her again. "I know you've been through a lot tonight, Keen. You've been through a lot in general these past few weeks. But you cannot lose sight of your priorities here."

Liz suddenly, desperately, needed to get away from everyone. "Sir, I have to go to the bathroom for a minute, OK? I'll be right back." She saw him look over her head, apparently checking the efforts that were underway for documenting and processing the scene. "He didn't go near the one in the bedroom," she said, in answer to his next question. "Please, I really need to." Receiving the go-ahead, she promptly left them both.

"I should have known it was too soon to put her back in the field," Cooper said in a low voice, watching her as she went. "After her husband, and Zamani . . . after Kornish? She wasn't ready."

Ressler raised his eyebrows. He still thought the lack of disciplinary action from the last time Keen acted against Reddington was bananas, but tonight was not the time, nor was it his place, to rub his boss's nose in this realization. "Like you said," he echoed simply. "Maybe we're just going to have to rethink all of this."

Liz shut the bathroom door behind her and leaned up against it, her eyes coming to rest on the small and fanciful chandelier hanging from the ceiling medallion in the center of the room. In the silence, she could hear the scraping sound of Red's razor against his skin. The image it conjured of his chin high in the air, a picture of control, soon gave way to the memory of his neck stretching over her in the bedroom—of his carotid pulse racing weakly beneath her fingers in the hall.

How had so much happened in so little time? It was minutes ago, and it was an eternity ago.

She scrubbed her hands in the sink, watching the brown-tinged water as it slid down the drain, and dried them on the one towel that was left: Red's bath towel, which was hanging by the shower. Crossing back to the sink, she unthinkingly picked up his pot of shave soap, removing the smooth, wooden lid and dipping her nose to inhale its aroma. How Proustian, she could hear him saying now.

Everything that had transpired seemed to cave in on Liz at once, and her eyes welled with tears as she set it back down and went over to use the toilet. Nestled in the absolute furthest corner the suite had to offer, she looked out at the shower, the tub, the window. Maybe she could just stay in this bathroom forever; watch something on one of the hidden TVs. Where had Red put the remote again?

Liz finished and sat down on the edge of the tub. She stared off into the mirror across from her, listening to the activity pick up outside. For hardly the first time that night, she felt her head spin.

_Not one sound._

_My friend, he is always so obsessed with you._

_You gonna tell on me, Lizzy?_

_I'm not sure why._

_Tell Harold how bad I've been._

_Your protector._

_Old habits, I suppose._

_You're a monster._

_It is now he who burns._

_How can you live with that?_

_It is he who slaughters._

_No, Red._

_I'd never have left them._

_He couldn't help it._

_Not in a million years._

Cooper was leaning in close to the door. He rapped on it lightly. "Agent Keen? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," she answered, feeling very much like a woman then and resenting the hell out of it.

At Cooper's silent urging, Ressler walked over to her when she emerged. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You OK?"

"Yeah."

"I've been looking around," Ressler began, knowing what he was about to say was going to garner a hostile reaction no matter how he broached the subject.

"And?"

Ressler sighed. "And, for one thing . . . I know you were drinking tonight."

Liz nodded slowly, scrutinizing him back. "You go to Cooper with this?"

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

"Christ, Keen, you don't have to be so—" Ressler caught himself too late.

"What?"

He looked down, pressing his lips together.

"Defensive? Melodramatic? You know what, Ressler, you're right—" she raised her hands to simultaneously inspect and present the dried blood she knew would still be under her fingernails, "just another day in the life of Elizabeth Keen, you know? How unprofessional of me."

"I just want you to be careful," Ressler said, meeting her with a calmness that only served to exasperate her more. "I know I don't have to remind you, but trust me: Reddington's dangerous."

"Yeah, well, I don't need people to keep rescuing me," she informed him, her heart still pounding furiously.

"Maybe so," he replied, "but you don't need _this_ , either. I mean, come on." His features screwed up in a perfectly incredulous expression. "This room? This music?"

Liz stalked over to the MP3 docking station, which had evidently reverted to jazz. A sax-led, trumpet-warmed rendition of "Someone to Watch Over Me" by Coleman Hawkins. She shut it off, feeling strangely as though Red—and she, by extension—were being violated in some way.

Ressler followed her. "Honestly?" he went on, after making sure their boss was out of earshot. "I can't believe Cooper puts up with it as much as he does. He's playing us all like a fiddle. And it's not gonna be pretty when it's over."

She turned around to face him.

"I mean look at your life since Red's come along. Look what happened to you with Kornish, OK, or, or what happened with Wujing. You could have died, Keen." His voice had grown slightly higher, slightly louder. "You could have died tonight."

"I didn't, though," she protested. Her hand came out from her side, unconsciously gesturing at the wall behind him. "He made sure of that."

Ressler shrugged, looking past her before meeting her eyes again. "Maybe that's the point," he said, mildly now. "He wants you to trust him, Liz. He wants you off guard."

She didn't respond, caring little for the sound of her own doubts being articulated back to her.

"Look, I just don't like seeing you get—caught up in this, you know? It's not worth it, believe me. It's not worth it."

Liz was still considering him. She shrugged back, her eyes capitulating and suddenly bright. "He saved me, Ressler," she breathed.

He nodded sympathetically. "I'm glad," he told her.

She rejoined Cooper to see what else was needed from her. On autopilot, she went through the suite and indicated what had happened where, and after some time sat down on the living room couch across from the fireplace. Her boss's voice interrupted her once again.

"Go home, Keen. Get some rest."

Part of her wanted to stay—to take a bath in the deep soaking tub; to curl up in the king-sized, canopied bed with its fine European linens and just never wake up. But it was a crime scene now, and that was quite out of the question.

Ressler caught her movement from across the room and excused himself from one of the techs to approach her. "Hey. You good here? I'll take you home."

"Oh, um . . . OK. Thanks."

She must be tired, he thought to himself, smiling inwardly.

As they drove along the quiet, late-night city streets, Liz asked if she could borrow his phone. "Yes, this is Agent Keen with the FBI? I'm calling to follow up on a patient that was brought in tonight."

Stabbing victim, she recited mentally, disbelievingly, after providing the details and being patched through to the emergency department.

"Hi, Agent Keen?" a nurse answered.

"Yes."

"Hi. We don't have much info for you right now, but I know he did go into surgery some time ago."

"Oh. OK. Is there a, I mean, is there any way you would know, whether he's gonna make it or not?"

"Well, it's too early to say one way or the other, but we're cautiously optimistic. He has got some fight in him, based on what he's managed to survive already."

You don't know the half of it, Liz thought after hanging up with her.

»»««

It was past 1:00 a.m. by the time Liz arrived home. Tom gave her space, but the round eyes behind his glasses were filled with palpable concern. He accepted the usual: It's my job. I can't get into it. Classified. I'm sorry.

"Not a colleague, I hope?" he did ask, angling his head without looking at her as she carried her glass of water past him in the kitchen.

Liz stopped to face him. She shook her head from side to side, but it remained unclear whether the answer was no, or she just couldn't say.

Tom returned the plaintive smile with one of his own. "Just let me know if you need anything. All right?"

Rain had started to patter against the windows by the time she got out of the shower and joined him in bed. She closed her eyes, but there was no solace to be found there, as the night's events only continued to play back relentlessly in her mind.

She saw the Spiderman, the blackness of him visually arresting in the room of creams and greys, against the pallor of Red in front of him.

She saw the Spiderman's eyes, intent and piercing; saw Red's eyelashes, thick and perpetually falling.

Felt his fingers on her face, the pressure of his thumb sliding over and pushing between her lips. Saw the deep and inscrutable darkness in the eyes that lifted back to hers—a gaze that was suddenly dangerous, and riveted on her.

Mostly, though, she saw the glass bury into him, over and over again. Heard his cry of pain; glimpsed the thoroughly unfamiliar, anguished look on his face as it tipped away towards the floor.

Squeezing her eyes against her pillow, Liz turned over on her side. In the darkness, she caught Red sitting across the room from her.

 

* * *

 

I am the most beautiful boogie man  
The most beautiful boogie man  
Let me be your favorite nightmare  
Close your eyes and I'll be right there

~ mos def, "the boogie man song"

 

* * *

 

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;  
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.  
"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;  
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"  
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said  
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

. . .


	5. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liz's thing with Red here has actually happened to me before, and let me tell you: it is scary as hell when it does! ;) As for the little ocean anecdote (this one also comes from personal experience, P.S.), I wrote that months before the Berlin episode, so scout's honor, I wasn't hijacking Red's tale about the lionfish, haha . . . For that matter, another exchange coming up, one of the first lines I wrote for this story, has sorta kinda since occurred on the show as well—who's reading whose mind, Blacklist!

He was perfectly still, watching her sleep from his perch there in the shadows.

Liz scrambled wildly back in bed.

"Oh, my—" She blinked out at Red's silent, unblinking face and just as quickly realized her mistake: the hypnagogic hallucination born of stress and rotten sleep patterns transforming the stack of laundry from four nights ago she had yet to put away into something that wasn't there. Beside her, Tom stirred, the outburst having jolted him awake as well.

"Babe! You all right?"

"Yeah." Liz's heart was still racing. "Yeah, I'm sorry." She shook her head. "Shh, I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

Tom rolled over onto his back, rubbing a hand into his eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I'm fine. Swear. Sorry again."

He remained awake for longer than she thought he would, but eventually his breathing deepened and lengthened. Liz felt more than tired enough to join him, and yet she did not. Could not. She watched the rain sliding down the patch of light on the wall, a set of passing headlights that traveled along the room's expanse as whatever vehicle they belonged to moved slickly down the street.

This was crazy. Sleep was not going to come anytime soon, and she simply had to know. Easing herself out of bed, she readied herself in minutes. She didn't bother leaving a note this time. Tom would know it was work-related if he happened to wake up, and they had to talk later anyway.

As she pulled away from the curb, her husband was surveilling her, unseen, from the window above.

»»««

The rain was falling lightly but steadily, sending the early leaves of fall drifting into puddles and storm drains. She headed south, just as she had done hours ago, back in the general direction of The Jefferson but destined for The George Washington University Hospital this time.

She felt sick. Nervous.

Although the confidential nature of the task force all but ensured there would be no mention of what happened tonight on WTOP, Liz still didn't want to listen to the radio. She could only imagine what they would be saying, if the story were to break somehow: 'Police are investigating a brazen attack in a penthouse suite of downtown's Jefferson hotel late this evening that left one man dead and the suspect at large . . .'

Liz pressed the play button on the CD player to see if there was anything in there. Track 01 of a mix CD Tom had made for her began playing Ryan Adams's cover of "Wonderwall." In the distance, she glimpsed the scaffolding lights of the Washington Monument, still undergoing its earthquake repairs, glowing softly through the rain.

_We're not a team._

_I'm not your partner._

She could have killed him that night, the night she went to see Tom in the hospital. He was so cold, so blunt, telling her that her feelings didn't matter, that Tom didn't matter. Who the hell did he think he was?

_We're gonna make a great team._

And now it was possibly over—all of it, just like that. She would never have to worry about Raymond Reddington worming his way into her life ever again.

Liz slowed down, seeing a fox trotting across the street ahead of her. She tried to follow where he went as she passed, but he was already gone.

When they were in that bunker, the way he'd subtly moved in front of her when Wujing raised his weapon—it wasn't this. Even stopping Kornish, when she was alone and thought for sure she was going to die, wasn't this. This was different.

She'd felt the warmth of his blood against her fingers; had listened to his disturbing attempts at breathing and choking on that same blood instead. The sight of it beginning to pool on the parquet floor. His head bowed in terrifying silence, the result of leaving him behind, of leaving him alone. Dembe trying to make him look up again, getting there first. The way his eyes had brightened—twice, in one night—over far too many losses.

There was a tear she'd been moved enough to let slip when Red was saying the things he was to Kornish, too . . . Where did that come from, anyway?

_I said maybe / You're gonna be the one that saves me_

The windshield wipers swept at the rain as Liz swept at her face, as she listened to a song her husband wanted her to think of him to. In truth, though, she was thinking about Tom. Just as she was thinking about their new baby. This new job. Ressler. The girl that night in New York, dead on the stoop of her own apartment building. Red.

She finally arrived at the hospital and found a spot on 23rd, right near the entrance of the emergency department. Her heart was thudding hard in her chest now. Shaking her umbrella out through the automatic doors, she headed for reception.

"Hi, I'm Agent Keen with the FBI," she said, producing her badge. "I wanted to check on the status of a patient, Gerald Doyle?"

"OK . . . Doyle, you said? Let's see here." The woman behind the desk scanned the log while a nurse stopped to retrieve something. "Hey, Annie," she murmured. "Gerald Doyle—was he the one . . ."

Oh, God, Liz thought. He's dead. How could she have thought otherwise? Living long enough to see the OR never guaranteed anything. He's dead. The receptionist was placing a call on her phone. She repeated the name and nodded as she listened. Liz stared out at her dolefully, her head swimming as she waited for the confirmation.

The woman glanced up and saw Keen's face go ashen. She shook her head at her while the person on the other end finished, at last replacing the phone on the receiver. "Oh, no—I'm sorry, dear," she said. "He's in recovery, actually."

"Oh, he is?" Liz's brow shot up along with her voice.

"Yes. They have him on a ventilator now, but it sounds like he may come off that in an hour or two, depending."

"OK," she said, nodding. "Wow, OK. Great. Thank you."

"He should be moved to a room at that point, so if you want someone to call you?"

"Oh, well, we do need to take a statement from him about what happened, so . . . I can just stay and wait, if that's all right?"

"Sure, if you don't have anywhere else you need to be. There's a lounge right down this hallway here if you like."

"OK, great. Thanks so much again." Liz turned and started to walk in the direction she'd been pointed. The relief coursed through her as she moved, and she ran both hands around her head, smiling at her own delirious exhaustion. God, he was alive.

Alive.

»»««

_Red?_

_Look at me, baby._

_Look at me._

His eyes opened slowly, the brightness of what appeared to be a new day filtering in through the window of a room he did not know. A nurse he did, somehow, vaguely recognize was standing by him, checking his IV, and she looked down at him. "There you are."

Red's cheek rolled into his pillow as he continued to take in his surroundings. Sleepily, he blinked up at her. "Here I am," he affirmed, noting how sore his throat was.

"Good to see. You were quite the little quandary around here not so long ago."

"Mmm. Sorry about that."

"Hey, make those surgeons work for their money, right?"

"Why not."

"Mr. Popularity, too. You've got two guards out there, and another agent who arrived a few hours ago."

Red lowered his eyebrows woozily at her. Christ on a bike. It figured he was going to have deal with this already. "Freckled guy?" he asked.

"No, she said she was with you last night?"

"Mmm . . ." Red visibly relaxed as he processed this. "Well, in that case, _she_ is welcome whenever."

"OK. Let's just get you checked out for a minute here. How does that sound? And we'll have the doctor come in and talk to you."

"Sounds sublime."

»»««

Liz was asleep—finally, blissfully, asleep, when a nurse gently roused her.

"Agent Keen?" she whispered. "Agent Keen. I'm sorry."

"Hmm?" Liz tried to remember where she was as she blinked herself awake. "No, it's fine. It's fine; I'm here?"

"I just wanted to let you know, you can go in and see Mr. Doyle for that statement if you need to. He's awake now."

"Oh, yeah. Great," said Liz. "Thank you." She gathered herself up, finding herself alternately eager and apprehensive at the prospect of this reunion. The horror of what they had endured and the resulting, forced intimacy between them—Liz couldn't remember purposely touching Red in any way before—still didn't seem quite real, and she didn't know what to expect seeing him again now.

Arriving in front of his room, she knocked gingerly, peeking around the door as she pushed it open. The sight that greeted her, while expected, on some level, was still a jarring one to behold. She just wasn't used to seeing him so . . . human. The hospital gown, the nasal cannula, the monitors beeping everything—at least, physically everything—there was to know about him. He had dark circles under his eyes, and she honestly couldn't decide whether this unnaturally pale, weakened state made him look younger or older. Through it all, he was smiling placidly in her direction.

"Lizzy."

"Hi," she replied, exhaling as she did so. She pulled out a visitor's chair. Red took in the rain-frizzed hair, the obvious sleep deprivation etched on her face.

"You look like hell." His voice was low, raw.

"That's funny; you don't at all."

"Ah, good. I was worried about that."

Liz returned the smile, grateful for at least some part of the Red she had come to know.

"So," he said. "Here to check in on old 'Jerry'?"

"Right, since 'Raymond' is much better."

"How do you know that's my real name?" he deadpanned.

The possibility that it wasn't had never occurred to Liz. She stowed that one away for later. "Does it help that every briefing I ever saw had it listed as Gerry with a 'G'?" she asked.

"Gerry with a 'G,' hmm . . . I will have to get back to you on that. It's a draw in my head right now."

She smiled, still consumed with awkwardness. "So, um. How you feeling?"

"Well, turns out I did end up making things a hell of a lot messier for everyone. Guess there was some repair work involved there would not have been otherwise."

Liz's eyes went to his side, hidden from view. "Ah, well. Another souvenir, right?"

"Yeah," he said, smirking. "I think I may even have a coded message scored onto my ribcage this time. Felt like it on the way in, anyway."

The idea of anything scraping along bones was unpleasant enough, but the stark reminder of what she'd witnessed firsthand—of what her own inaction had brought upon him—made Liz avert her eyes. "Mmm," she murmured.

"Not supposed to fly for a while," he went on. "Six weeks, I think they said?" His frown was dubious. "That could be a problem."

"You'll manage, I'm sure," she said, knowing he wouldn't. He'd be calling her from however many thousand feet by week's end.

He sighed. "I have to stay until they take the chest tube out. And while there are some marvelous drugs I'm on here, I'd appreciate your efforts in facilitating a timely release so we can get back to normal. Relatively speaking, of course."

"Yeah," she answered slowly. "I don't know. It doesn't sound like Cooper wants us doing much of anything together right now."

"Let me work on Harold," said Red with a patient smile. "God, I can only imagine," he mused, chuckling: "your colleagues must be thinking they were oh, so close to getting rid of me forever. I do love disappointing people sometimes."

"Yeah, I thought we were—" Liz stopped suddenly under his gaze. "It wasn't looking too good there; not gonna lie."

Something twinkled in Red's eyes, as though he had just divined a small and gleaming secret. "Yes. I must admit," he reflected, "the expression you had on your face through most of it did not fill me with the _ut_ most confidence."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be."

She met his eyes again, forcing herself. "I mean what is this now," she was counting off on her fingers. "Wujing, Kornish . . . rescue number three?"

"Third time's a charm."

"Hmm. That's what Ressler would say."

"What would Ressler say?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I think he thinks some part of you is orchestrating these little close calls to, uh, gain my trust."

Red raised his hands in presentation of himself—bedridden, hooked up to things he shouldn't be, his one hand wrapped in gauze—with a look of comic bewilderment on his face.

"Oh, I don't know," said Liz. "Something tells me you could instruct just about anyone on how to barely kill you. Doesn't mean they're going to follow it to the letter?"

His eyebrows lifted consideringly. "Fair enough," he acknowledged. "You'd think Donald would give me a break at some point, though, you know, that saving you counts for something."

"What do you—" Liz glanced at him. "Ressler is hardly my biggest fan."

"Uh-huh," said Red, looking bored all of a sudden.

She decided to leave that one alone for the time being as well. "How did you even hear anything out there, anyway?" she asked him, genuinely curious. "That's why you pretended to see Dembe on his way up, right—to get me inside without alerting him?"

"Oh, in the last twenty-three years, I've amassed a list of all sorts of peculiar things to keep an ear and eye out for," he replied. "Aren't you glad the Thomas Jefferson Suite was unavailable this weekend? Two more balconies from which to snatch you. I'm sure the Spiderman—"

Dismissively, Liz's head went from side to side, but Red saw the unconscious grimace that accompanied it. "Let's not talk about him now," she said.

Of course, Red thought, viewing her downturned face: this man who had meant to take her, who had escaped after said attempt, and who, for all intents and purposes, knew how to get to her now.

"You're right," he said; "I'm sorry."

She stared at him. "Don't be." They both fell silent.

"You without your pen, though," Red droned then, slyly. She ignored the cheap shot, only for him to take it further: "You know, it's funny . . . it did cross my mind that your fellow agents might actually think _you_ did this to me."

Liz blanched, thinking of the suspicious looks she was sure she saw last night, of Dembe's reaction when he spotted her off the elevator.

Red's smile faded at the effect his words had on her. "They did?"

"I'm sure some of them did," she managed. "When I first saw Dembe . . . he looked like he thought I'd done it right away."

"Well, I mean, you can hardly blame him. He saw what became of me on our first case together."

Liz sought his eyes guiltily at this, but Red's expression was mildly amused again. "Water under the bridge," he assured her. He inhaled deeply, letting his eyes fall closed for the first time since she entered the room. "Now, if I start to drift off here, are you gonna let me?"

"I'm glad you find all of this so funny, Red," she said, her tone not quite as light as she had intended it to be. Red didn't seem to notice.

"Well, somebody should." He went to readjust his position a bit too suddenly, forgetting, and hissed. "Oh, _fuck_. I'm sorry." His left hand came off the bed in apology as he collected himself. "I'm sorry." Almost immediately, the hand balled into a fist and pressed down beside him. " _Uh_ , that little fucker . . ."

She inclined forward. "Do you need—"

"No, I'm fine," he said, still cringing, looking drawn.

"I think I'll let you rest for now."

"Lizzy, it's—"

There was a soft knock at the door, and Liz turned to see Ressler standing there. "Hi," she said, while Red frowned his bleary disapproval.

"Hey," Ressler answered. He lowered his voice as some hospital staff passed behind him. "I just wanted to let you know I'm here. We've got a detail set up—"

"I'm feeling well this morning, Agent Ressler; thanks so much for asking," Red called out to him.

Ressler stopped. He smiled and waved. "Yeah. That's great news, Gerry."

At the sight of Red's eyes narrowing, Liz tried not to smile herself. "All right," she said, smoothing her hands against her legs as she rose. "It looks like you're all set here."

Red appeared to tense up in the face of her signaled retreat. "Uh, will—"

"I'll check in with the detail later," she said, turning back at the door. "Is there anything you need right now?"

"Well, the scenery's a considerable downgrade from my accommodations last night," and Liz saw him flagrantly eyeing Ressler as opposed to anything of the room itself, "but at least I'll be sleeping through most of it."

In that instant, the memory struck her: a room not far from here, Red clean and whole, smelling of brandy and sandalwood and cigarette smoke and looking at her—she swore—almost hungrily. He had to know she would never say anything about that moment that had passed between them, so he'd effectively gotten away with it. How was she ever supposed to bring it up? 'So, back when you had your thumb in my mouth . . .' She could not have known, and would never have guessed, that he was more than happy to bring it up right then and there himself.

"I'm sorry if the events of last night have left you feeling violated, Agent Keen," he said. Ressler glanced over at her.

"You must understand," Red continued naturally but deliberately, as if he were choosing his words with care, "that I left you the way I did in case there would not be another opportunity to do so."

Liz returned his gaze, schooling her expression. "Water under the bridge," she said in reply.

Red blinked slowly at this, still studying her silently. He looked very tired again.

She nodded. "Get some rest now, huh?"

"If you say so. You should do the same."

"I think I will," she replied, giving Ressler a smile as she turned and left the room.

»»««

One week had passed when she received word to meet Red at the Tidal Basin. Cooper didn't know, and she wasn't about to tell him. None of that had exactly been sorted out yet.

The last few days had been spent at work, with the odd stop at the hospital whenever she found herself in the vicinity. On the night of her first visit, Red underwent deep breathing and coughing exercises to help re-expand and clear his lungs. He was made to walk the next morning, and after a few days was able to have the chest tube removed. In between the various physical therapy and ambulation sessions, he did seem to sleep a lot, which Liz was glad to see. She peeked in on him once, and he looked more content and more peaceful than perhaps anyone she had seen in her entire life.

Walking down the Tidal Basin loop, Liz breathed in the glorious day. It smelled like fall. The cherry blossom trees were now a vivid spectrum of green, yellow, orange, and red, the branches of some coming out so far that they hovered just above the basin's surface. He had chosen a spot along the western bank close to the FDR Memorial, on a series of granite benches facing the water. Dembe and Luli, the other half of Red's personal security team, were strolling the grounds nearby. She took in the sight of him as she approached.

He was wearing his blue Loro Piana jacket, his aviator sunglasses. A brown fedora. One leg crossed over the other. Barring the wrapped hand, it was like nothing had ever happened, but then Liz also hadn't seen him walk up to this spot; hadn't seen him sit.

"I figured some fresh air might do me good," Red said as she took a seat next to him. "Like the old sanatoriums, in the days before antibiotics. Have you ever seen those pictures, patients lying under blankets, wheeled out onto porches or propped in front of open windows in the dead of winter?" He shook his head wonderingly. "We really have come a long way in a very short period of time."

Liz scanned his face, availing herself of the opportunity while he was looking elsewhere. "How are you doing?" she asked.

Red smiled at a pair of mallards gliding by in front of them, chatting to each other in their low, muffled calls. "I'll keep this brief, just so we're not seen together for any longer than necessary," he said. "The first order of business: have you noticed anything these last few days? Anyone following you, anything at all out of the ordinary?"

She glanced away from him. "No."

"Good. Dembe's already been looking in on you intermittently, but I'll make sure my people keep an eye on you until we have this thing sorted."

"I don't think Tom—" Liz suddenly didn't know how to finish that sentence: 'I don't think Tom will like that?' 'I don't think my husband is going to want to make sure I'm safe?'

To be sure, Red was shaking his head. "Not up for debate, Lizzy. Sorry." Turning, he let his eyes roam over her. "Second order of business, and the only other one, incidentally, that I had. I wanted to see where Harold might be with the task force."

"We don't know yet," she replied. "And honestly, I can't tell what he may or may not be thinking at this point."

Red's lips pursed as he looked away, scanning their surroundings in a slow and subtle arc. "OK. I'll give it another day or two, then."

The trees rustled overhead, and she joined him in staring out across the basin: the smooth, marble lines of the Jefferson Memorial, the Washington Monument and all its crazy scaffolding to the north.

"You know, there are things I positively _hate_ about this town, but then there are other things I adore," said Red. "This place happens to be one of them. I'm always drawn to water," and his eyes indeed seemed to catch and linger over the contours of its moving surface. "Always. The ocean, especially. I love the way the color depends on the sky. I love what a wave looks like from underneath, the spray that comes back on you on a windy day. I love when it's still, and you can float forever. I love the way it rushes up around your ankles to greet you like a long-lost friend. Have you read Pablo Neruda? 'I need the sea,'" he recited, "'because it teaches me.' Anyway, it's funny I have such an affinity for it, because I really shouldn't. I almost drowned once."

Liz looked at him, and Red squinted behind his sunglasses. "Well, maybe that's being a bit melodramatic. I almost _al_ most drowned once. In the ocean, when I was nine. It was late in the afternoon, and my father had warned me not to go out too far, but there was a sandbar that day, and there were people so well ahead of me that it all felt rather silly staying close to shore. Everything was fine until I felt the sea floor plummet away, completely and without warning. Wave after wave rolled over my head, heedless of my small plight as I desperately tried to stay above the surface. Just as I was beginning to think all was lost, another swimmer came to my aid and carried me in to shore. I walked back to my oblivious family on the beach, shaken, hair dripping . . ." He saw Liz's subtle reaction and stopped, smiling back at her.

"I know, right? Hard to imagine. My father was _fur_ ious when he found out what happened, yelling at me for all the Cape to hear. I could tell by the panicked look in his eyes, though—it was really coming from a place of sheer terror more than anything."

"Someone was looking out for you that day," remarked Liz at last, letting the story sink in.

"Hmm. Well, whatever benevolent spirit it might have been, I think it's safe to say they've long since left."

"I'm not so sure about that," she said. "You're still here, aren't you?" A cryptic smile emerged on Red's profile, but again, he failed to answer her.

"You can never be so foolish as to underestimate nature, though," he said in summary. "That's what I really took away from that day. She always commands a certain respect." He turned to face her. "Thank you for meeting me," he said, his voice lending its strange and funny warmth to an otherwise perfunctory farewell. "Maybe it's the natural lighting I finally have again, but you look much better than you did the last time I saw you."

Liz scoffed at the unexpected insult. "Oh, well. Thanks, you know. You too."

Still beaming in that exaggerated way of his, his attention shifted to follow the slicing roar of a jet on its descent to Reagan National across the Potomac. She moved when it became apparent that he had no immediate plans of doing so, and gave the area behind him a once-over for anyone suspicious herself.

"OK. Well. See you at some point, I guess?"

"I certainly hope so."

As she headed down the basin's perimeter, Liz turned back for one last look at him. He was gazing out across the water, hands folded between his knees.

The journey home, like all of those over the past week, was a thoughtful one. While it had been reassuring to see him out and about, Liz harbored the same concerns that Red evidently did regarding a potential follow-up to last Saturday's attack. The good news was that Tom had some parent-teacher conference to go to tonight, which meant she could finally, properly unwind.

Parking across the street, Liz took a brief inventory of the other vehicles around them. After clearing every room on the inside, she poured herself a glass of wine and settled into a long, soaking, LUSH product-filled bath. It was roughly an hour later, when she was still combing out her hair, that the front bell rang.

Instantly on edge, Liz put on her robe. She peered through the window and saw Dembe standing there, waiting on the top step.

"Dembe," she greeted, opening the door to him. "I was just—I'm sorry." Shaking off her distractedness and mild sense of embarrassment, she tilted her head at him. "What's up?"

"Raymond wants you this evening," he said, and Liz searched his face, uncomprehending. "For dinner."

 

* * *

 

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do  
To prove that warm affection I've always felt for you?  
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;  
I'm sure you're very welcome—will you please take a slice?"  
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,  
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

. . .


End file.
